


Tricycle

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bondage, Collars, Dom/sub, Dominance, Dry Humping, Frottage, Handcuffs, M/M, Slurs, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo finally starts Thorin’s games, with Bofur for training wheels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tricycle

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for heavenreturned’s “FROTTAGE! Any fic with our boys rubbing all over each other till they cum” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=21706731).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The walk from Thorin’s throne to his chambers has never felt so long. Bilbo tells himself it’s the trepidation, the nervousness that’s only natural with such a big change before him. But below that, he knows it’s the _anticipation_ —he’s wanted this for _so long_ , and now that he’s finally managed the courage to ask—and proven that he’s strong enough to take it—he _can’t wait_ for them to reach their destination. It almost seems like Thorin’s walking deliberately slow, giving Bilbo a chance to change his mind. Bilbo knows he won’t. He might not have the muscles and thick head of a dwarf, but he’s made of sterner stuff than they give him credit for, and he’s sure that he can handle it. 

He’s still sure, just a little anxious, when they finally stop outside the grand stone doors of Thorin’s chambers. The King under the Mountain turns to look down at little Bilbo Baggins and announce, “There is no shame in backing out now, my friend. My harem is not a place for the faint of heart.”

Bilbo’s never heard it phrased quite like a _harem_ before, but he nods all the same, gulping. He loves all the dwarves, and he knows now that he’s as strong as any of them, in his own way, and he wants what they all have. What they all came in having. Now that the quest is over—Thorin has his mountain and his kingdom, and Bilbo’s chosen to stay—he doesn’t think he could remain in Erebor knowing that this one last treasure remained beyond his grasp. He tells Thorin in a quiet but firm voice, “I already pledged myself once to you, Thorin, and I happily do it again.”

A small smile graces Thorin’s lips, and he replies softly, “That was quite a different pledge.”

Bilbo sucks in a breath and says, “I want it.” And he looks Thorin dead in the eye, meaning it. 

Thorin only pauses a moment more. Then he reaches an arm behind Bilbo’s back and scoops him forward, opening the tall doors with the other hand. Bilbo is ushered into the low firelight with careful steps, even though he’s been in Thorin’s chambers before. It’s never been under _this_ promise, though he’s wanted it many times. He’s wanted it from other dwarves, too, but he hasn’t dared to ask; all the dwarves belong to Thorin.

As the doors close behind them, Bilbo knows that he now _belongs_ to Thorin, too. He lets out a shaking breath.

But it catches again a moment later, when he realizes they aren’t quite alone. 

He’d expected it to just be the two of them, the first time, even though he hardly would’ve minded jumping into the laps of all thirteen of the dwarves at once. Thorin sweeps past him, not in the least bit fazed, and strolls simply to the foot of the large bed that rests against the wall. Bofur sits on the floor next to it, utterly naked, save for a few trinkets.

His hat is still on his head. The ends flare out, perky as usual, and the long fang earring he’s always favoured hangs from his ear. What Bilbo hasn’t seen before is the heavy, golden collar wrapped around Bofur’s thick neck, fit snugly against his throat. A little metal loop rests in the center along his collarbone, a chain attached and drooping down his chest, draping over his thigh and wrapped securely around the bedpost behind him. Each of his wrists is fit with a large cuff, little loops sticking out the inner sides. The rest of Bofur is all smooth skin and dark hair, and Bilbo _stares_ at the broad expanse of his chest, the square cut of his shoulders, the dip down his abdomen into a fair mix of soft fat and taut muscles. The jut of his hip bones nearly makes Bilbo’s mouth water, though the best of it is how his chiseled thighs are spread, revealing the long, thick meat of his cock. It’s surrounded by coarse curls that reach all the way up his stomach, obscuring the dark base but highlighting the clear curve of the shaft and the red-purple head, crowning through the foreskin. His balls are nestled heavily against the floor, and Bilbo takes a full minute to digest the size of them, nearly twice as large as his own. By the time he finally manages to lift his gaze back to Bofur’s face, he finds a wide grin beneath the curled mustache, and he can feel his own cheeks turning entirely red.

“Since this is only your first time,” Thorin starts, his deep voice in a low drawl, “we will take things slowly and easily.” He pauses to look down at Bofur, grinning and adding affectionately, “I thought Bofur would be a good partner to ease you through it. He is particularly... fun.”

Bofur beams from the praise of his king, though his eyes stay fixed on Bilbo, clearly hungry and ready. Bilbo can hardly hide his own pleasure; Bilbo would’ve _loved_ to see Bofur like this nearly right after they first met, but the first time he snuck a kiss to the playful dwarf’s cheek, he was informed that Bofur, like all of them, was already owned, and Bilbo hadn’t yet thought to try to come into that same fold. 

Now, he gets the distinct impression that he’ll be able to do more than kiss Bofur quite soon. He isn’t sure if he wants to walk over and thrust his own crotch into Bofur’s face or fall to his knees and wraps his lips around Bofur’s hard cock, but it doesn’t matter—the decision isn’t his. He waits with baited breath while Thorin bends to run his fingers along one of Bofur’s braids, ordering casually, “Lock your hands.”

Bofur instantly moves his arms behind his back, and Bilbo hears a metallic clicking sound—Bofur sits up straighter. His cuffs must have attached together, and it leaves his chest pulled taut, thrust forward. All Bilbo can look at is the rosy buds of Bofur’s nipples, peaking through the dark fur and arching toward Bilbo’s hungry mouth. Bilbo barely hears Thorin purr, “Do you remember your safe word, Bilbo?”

Bilbo nods his head, then has to clear his throat to mumble, “Yes.” Bofur’s grin widens, like he’s proud of Bilbo, and Bilbo keeps his mouth open, wanting to compliment Thorin on the choice to keep Bofur’s hat on. But then he thinks better of it and shuts his jaw.

Thorin disappears in his peripherals for a moment, then returns half behind him, and Bilbo’s head jerks around as Thorin’s hefty fingers wrap around his waist. His belt is deftly undone, and he lifts his arms to help. It drops to the floor, and then Thorin is stripping off Bilbo’s blue jacket, peeling away the white fur until it’s pooled at Bilbo’s feet. Bilbo is stripped of even his mithril vest, which forces him to look aside and blush. Being naked in front of others is terribly _improper_ , especially for an unwed hobbit, even though Bilbo often considers himself bound beyond matrimony to his dwarves. Yet he knows that Bofur was naked first, and that gives him some comfort. His trousers are untied the same way and pushed down his legs, and Bilbo shivers, standing bare between them both. He feels incredibly _shameful_. What a _slut_ the other hobbits would think him, if they could see him now, but Bilbo has to remind himself that there’s nothing wrong with the word, with the choice itself—he knows several dwarves who will readily admit to Bilbo that they enjoy being _whores_ for their king, and sometimes he only finds himself _jealous_.

He’s made to stand before them in nothing at all. His cock hasn’t been touched, but it’s far from flaccid—the promise of Thorin and the sight of Bofur keeps him half erect. He can feel Thorin’s eyes all over him, but he picks a random spot on the wall and chooses to stare at it while he waits. Finally, Thorin murmurs in his ear, “ _Very nice_.”

Bilbo shivers. He’s never felt so good, so very much like he belongs, and they’ve barely even started.

His arms are lifted up to his chest. Thorin holds both of Bilbo’s little wrists easily, and a second later, thick, gold cuffs are clamped around them, one for each, like Bofur’s, but smaller: made to fit. Of course, he’s in with dwarves. There are no blacksmiths better skilled, and the makeshift manacles fit him perfectly, as though they were molded specifically against his own flesh.

As Thorin fingers them, testing the fit, Bilbo asks huskily, “Should I lock them?” He doesn’t quite know how, but he imagines he could figure it out. He would bind himself head to foot if Thorin wished it, and it doesn’t seem fair to retain the use of his arms while poor Bofur is molded into place.

But Thorin chuckles, “No. Though I enjoy your eagerness. ...And you will no longer speak unless spoken to, either, at least until I have spent myself on your pretty face, or if you wish to use your safe word.”

Blushing hotly, Bilbo bites his bottom lip and nods; he won’t breathe a word.

Thorin pulls one gauntlet off his hand, the gloved attachment following, and then he runs the back of his bare fingers along Bilbo’s throat. Bilbo’s eyes flutter closed, his cock automatically twitching in response at the mere touch of it. The scent of Thorin is already intoxicating, the weight of his larger presence making Bilbo weak in the knees. As Thorin circles his thumb around Bilbo’s adam’s apple, he idly muses, “It took a while to train Bofur to keep his mouth closed, but an obedient little pet like you should have no trouble behaving. And if you don’t, I will have to take Bofur away from you and leave you only to play with yourself—you haven’t earned a right to me yet. And I would not be pleased if you did force me to take him away; I have too many lovers to play with only one at a time. Soon, I hope to have you ready to take one mate in each of your holes at once...”

Bilbo moans at just the promise, though he tries to stifle it. Thorin grins in amusement but doesn’t scold him—noises must be allowed. Bilbo doesn’t think he could manage otherwise. Thorin is too sensual, especially with the future dangling in front of Bilbo like a ripe carrot. Bilbo vows to behave himself, and not just because he wants the chance to rut shamelessly against Bofur until they’ve come all over each other. He already knows he’d do anything to keep Bofur from being taken away, and anything to keep Thorin pleased with him.

He throws his head back as Thorin tilts his chin, and he tries to keep from swallowing nervously as Thorin fits a collar around him. It’s hard and unforgiving, like the cuffs—maybe made of pure gold. Not quite cold, but not warm. It’s snug, but leaves room to breathe, and when Thorin pulls his hands away, Bilbo feels properly _owned_.

Thorin loops his finger into the front and uses it to drag Bilbo forward—Bilbo follows in a needy haze, stumbling ever closer to his prize. Then a hand fists in his hair, and it’s used to push him down—Bilbo collapses and falls to his knees, right between Bofur’s legs. Thorin guides Bilbo forward by the hair, and now Bilbo can smell Bofur’s musk, feel the warm breath on his face. Their thighs are touching. Bilbo holds his hands against his chest, forcing himself not to hold Bofur before Thorin’s given him permission. But it’s _hard_ , like his cock, which bobs just above Bofur’s—Bilbo’s lifting up slightly on his knees. 

His cock looks strangely small next to Bofur’s. Bofur’s is longer, thicker, darker, and the head is a bit more crinkled, the veins more prominent, like even this is stronger. Bilbo’s own hairs are fair and soft, whereas Bofur’s look like they might scratch. Bilbo stares at the difference and common hardness of their shafts, until Thorin’s hand appears under his chin. 

Thorin clips a tiny, silver chain onto the hook of Bilbo’s collar, and attaches it the same way to Bofur’s. It pulls the two of them so close together that their noses are nearly touching, Bilbo having to tilt his face slightly up to look at Bofur’s, and Bofur’s already tilted down. Bofur’s tongue swipes over his lips, and Bilbo has to suppress the urge to reach out and catch it in his mouth. Instead, he shivers and looks up at Thorin. 

Thorin bids him, “Put your hands where you like, Bilbo.”

Bilbo wants to put them _everywhere_. He wants to knot his fingers in Bofur’s braids, stroke Bofur’s pert nipples and palm his heavy balls. But something in Thorin’s voice gives Bilbo pause—a gravity, a finality. So he chooses wisely and instead loops his arms around Bofur’s shoulders—he thinks that the best place to hold on. He knows he wants to kiss Bofur, and this brings them all the closer. He can feel the _power_ beneath Bofur’s broad shoulders, and Bofur’s skin is hot and beaded here and there with little drops of sweat. The fire across from the bed is blazing, washing the whole room in orange and red light. Bofur gives Bilbo an encouraging smile, like his choice was a good one.

Then Thorin reaches down to take Bilbo’s hands, and he presses them together—the cuffs lock. Bilbo can feel the sudden snap, and when he tests his bonds, he can’t pull loose. He doesn’t protest.

He hears footsteps, and he looks aside to see Thorin strolling to the head of the bed, then climbing up and settling back, boots still on and all. Thorin lounges luxuriously against the carved headboard. He reaches his hands behind his head and says only, “Go.”

Bofur jerks to life. He slams into Bilbo _hard_ , head tilting just enough to keep their noses from smashing into one another. The scruff of his chin and mustache tickle Bilbo’s delicate skin, and his mouth opens, teeth grazing along Bilbo’s bottom lip. Bilbo barely has time to gasp before Bofur’s tongue is slipping in. He attacks Bilbo’s mouth like wildfire, working his thick tongue all around Bilbo’s and tracing every nook and cranny, leaving Bilbo just to whimper and squirm in place, helpless under Bofur’s assault. _This_ is what Bilbo’s been missing, what he’s wanted so desperately: the wild, fierce passion of a dwarf’s unbridled lust. 

It’s hard for Bilbo to breathe, and it’s difficult to break free even for a short moment, but as soon as he does, he gasps in air, and Bofur’s teeth scrape along his jaw. Bilbo makes a filthy groaning noise, contorting against Bofur’s body, and it drags his cock along Bofur’s stomach, Bofur’s shaft sandwiched up against him. Every time their cocks touch, sparks fly in Bilbo’s brain. He shifts his hips, trying to roll them against Bofur’s, and Bofur growls.

Then Bofur slams into him again, this time so hard that Bilbo’s thrown backwards. His shoulders hit the stone, but his arms around Bofur’s shoulders keep his head lifted, even though Bofur’s followed him down. His legs are forced into the air, spread around Bofur’s body, and his fingers twist into the back of Bofur’s hair, trying to hold on. How the hat is staying on, he has no idea. He’s dizzy from the fall, but there’s no time to recover; Bofur has captured his mouth again. Bilbo mewls into one needy kiss after another, while Bofur’s hips shove into his. His ass is ground into the floor, Bofur’s body pinning him down, and soon they’re rutting together like dogs. Bilbo’s smaller body humps Bofur wherever he can, but mostly it’s Bofur controlling the pace, cock smacking against his stomach and weight crushing him down over and over. 

Bilbo _loves_ it. All sense of ‘proper’ hobbit behaviour goes right out the window—he’s a horny, sweaty, sticky mess, and he loves every second of it. His skin heats up too fast, assaulted under the fire and Bofur’s body heat and their fervent actions, and Bilbo drowns in that warmth, all too happy to give in. There were so many times in the quest where Bilbo wanted to see Bofur naked, to _feel_ him, to grab him by both braids and bring their mouths together, and now he gets it all at once—he can feel every bit of Bofur’s body sliding against his, dry in places but slick with sweat in others. Bofur’s been so very _good_ to him, but he always knew there was a naughtier side below that cheerful smile, and from the way Bofur humps him, he knows that as much as Bofur can sing, he can _fuck_.

But Bilbo’s not going to last that long. He knows it, and he didn’t think they’d take him on the first round, but this is good, too—humping Bofur’s body is a special kind of heaven. The coarse hairs along Bofur’s stomach keep tickling Bilbo’s shaft, and there’s a wondrous sting every time Bofur’s heavy balls slap against his own. He tries to focus on different parts of Bofur’s body and memorize it all, but there’s no rhyme or reason to the thrusts, and Bofur’s bound arms keep him off balance: they’re just one big sweaty, writhing ball. The chain between their collars never lets them go far; even when they part for air, they’re pressed against one another: a constant reminder that they’re bound to this game for Thorin’s entertainment. Yet Bilbo feels like it’s all for _him_ , because he couldn’t imagine anything better than being pinned to the ground by a horny, naked Bofur, thoroughly ravishing his hips and mouth. 

Bilbo doesn’t last nearly as long as he wants to. He can feel his peak coming all too soon, and he tries to fight it, tries to hold back, but his hips are moving beyond his control, and even if he could stop them, Bofur’s still humping him wildly. He can only hope that they’ll stay chained together after. He breaks away from Bofur’s mouth and tosses his head back along the ground, moaning and trying with all his might not to come. He closes his eyes, refusing to look at Bofur’s handsome face, but he can still hear Bofur’s panted breath, and that big, thick cock is grinding into his stomach, and his own is nestled so perfectly against Bofur’s warm stomach, and when Bofur’s tongue swipes over Bilbo’s kiss-swollen lips, he can’t take it anymore.

He explodes with a loud cry, arching up into Bofur and digging his fingers into Bofur’s shoulders, while his cock bursts between them. His seed splatters both their chests, still moving, and Bofur groans delightedly and humps Bilbo all the harder, milking out every last drop. Bilbo’s release spills everywhere, clinging all up Bofur’s stomach and slicking down Bilbo’s sides, until Bofur is growling right in his ear. 

Bofur follows, and he seems to come twice as much—Bilbo yelps at the sheer force of it, the mass of hot, sticky liquid that paints his skin. Bofur grinds it all out, cock rubbing through Bilbo’s own seed, their shares mingling together. Bofur just keeps going and going, more and more, while Bilbo squirms and writhes beneath him, mewling like a spent animal, too satiated to do much more than to bask in their combined filth. 

He’s panting almost as hard as Bofur is by the time Bofur’s done. He wants to say that that was _amazing_ , but he remembers just in time that he isn’t to speak unless spoken too. Bofur’s eyes are hazy, his expression one of lax bliss, and after a moment of catching his own breath, he nuzzles down into Bilbo’s face. Bilbo thinks he might pass out, but he still has just enough strength to pet the back of Bofur’s neck in thanks.

When Bofur pulls back again, Bilbo sees Thorin over his shoulder. Thorin settles in behind Bofur, who looks back expectantly, then gasps and tosses his head forward. It takes Bilbo a second to understand what’s going on.

Bofur’s thrown right back over top of Bilbo. Thorin starts to fuck him _hard_ , grinding Bilbo into the floor, while poor Bilbo struggles to keep conscious. 

He fails just before Bofur grows hard again, ready for round two.


End file.
